Not Quite Fear
by Simone Robinson
Summary: "- "Does it hurt?" Mikey sounded tentative, meek and it was so unlike him. Leonardo grit his teeth and fought the urge to scream at him, instead he shook his head, lowering his hand, "No." -" How does Leonardo deal with the blindness? Is he strong enough?


**N** o t-**Q** u i t e- **F** e a r

* * *

He felt vulnerable. It was a feeling that he wasn't quite used to and he realized that he wasn't _quite_ comfortable with it.

When he acknowledged it, he could feel his unease too, as it clawed its way out of his stomach, tearing through the thin, fragile lining. It was saturating him, making his fingers tingle. He flexed them.

Beneath the tips he could feel the counter, smooth and cold, marred with scratches and chips.

It was a strange feeling, not being able to see. Or more, he could see nothing but complete blackness.

_Darkness._

How many hadn't even seen death, even as it walked up behind them?

He could feel something that was not-quite fear and not-quite grief as it clawed it's way out of his stomach, scratching and tearing at his throat until it starts to hurt too much and he opens his mouth. But he's silent, only taking in air. Huge gulps of air as he clutches at the counter until he can feel his knuckles drain of blood. They must be white. He notes. But he cannot be sure.

Beads of perspiration had begun to break out across his forehead and in hot patches across his body. The room had grown uncomfortably warm and he could feel the slick, wet trail of sweat against the skin on his neck. It soaked the back of his bandanna.

"Leo."

_There it was_. Leonardo had to fight to remain impassive at the sound of his brother's voice. He had to fight far too damn _hard_ and it wasn't like him. It _wasn't _like him but he _hadn't_sensed him coming.

Again, he wondered, how many hadn't even seen death, even as it walked up, announcing its presence with loud footsteps?

"What is it?" He could hear his own voice with a strange clarity, with more clarity than he had in a very long time. He thought it was like listening to a recording of himself. He could hear his own accent; hear the heaviness to his voice. He could hear the pitch at which he spoke, Low, rough. His words sounded colorless, toneless and he had to wonder if that was how he sounded all the time. Did he always sound so unreal? So dead? He didn't_feel _real, so maybe he wasn't.

Still, he could hear the _faintest_ trace of fear in his words. He could taste it as they rolled off his tongue. He wondered if Mikey could hear it too.

"Donny is on his way."

He could smell mint now and a strange, spicy smell. It seemed to fill the room.

_Mikey._

Funny, how he'd never noticed it before but had immediately picked up on it now.

"Alright."

Mikey said nothing, but Leonardo could _feel_that he hadn't left. Strange, saying that. He could feel that his brother was standing just next to him, a few steps away. From the tense, uncomfortable atmosphere, Leonardo could tell that he was struggling for words.

He let him struggle, saying nothing.

Leonardo could feel the crease in his own brow, the slight dampness on his skin, the shaking in his limbs. He clenched his hands into tight, thick fists. The shaking slowed, but didn't stop. It was as if the shock, the shock and complete and utter_realization_ was finally, _finally_ catching up.

And all of a sudden Leonardo felt sick with his not-quite-fear

And somehow, he dreaded Donny's words, and he lifted a hand, rubbing his eyes. His _useless_ eyes.

"Does it hurt?" Mikey sounded tentative, meek and it was so unlike him that it made Leonardo want to shout at his brother, provoke him and make him angry, make him shout back. _Anything._ He grit his teeth and fought the urge, instead he shook his head, lowering his hand, "No."

"What's it…?"

There was no need for Mikey to finish the question.

Leo took a breath, his fingers were digging into the smooth, wooden counter but his face, his voice, remained impassive.

Leonardo could remember being a child. Just barely. He could remember nights lying in his room in the house that smelt of incense, flour and tea. He could remember lying in bed, wrapped up in a scratchy woolen sheet, clinging to it. He could remember the feeling the fabric, plastered to his body, his skin damp with fear. It was _always_ too _dark._

However, Leonardo was no longer scared of the dark. He knew that and he _had_to_remember_ that.

He was _not_ scared of the dark

After a long silence he answered, his voice low, quiet and _almost_hoarse, "Dark." He whispered, "It's very, very dark."

And Mikey didn't seem to have an answer for that

* * *

**A slightly different take on the restricted senses challenge.**

**What did you think?**


End file.
